Embers
by homeric
Summary: Charlie cannot help but watch her.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Just borrowed - nothing is mine!**

It has been six months since Ron died, yet Hermione still comes to breakfast with red eyes and a false smile.

There are still reminders of the girl she had been; the books stacked by her bedside, her laughter when Crookshanks settles upon her lap, the occasional cutting remark when Fred or George push her a little too far. Charlie watches for those moments and wishes there were more of them. The war had been hard on them all, and as sweet as peace was, it also gave time for uncomfortable reflection. Funny how fighting Death Eaters could seem less daunting than going to bed each night, stranger still to think that for most of the wizarding world this was a time of celebration. All the dreamless sleep potions in the world would not erase his memories, nor assuage his guilt.

Ron had been his little brother; the brave, gangly young man who had still been looking for his place in the world, constantly overlooked and always adored by his friends. Harry, Hermione and Ron; their names were legend now, their bravery recounted in ever more inaccurate biographies. For years it was hard to think of one without the other two, they kept each other strong, and they kept each other alive. When friendship had evolved into something more romantic for his brother and Hermione in the wake of Dumbledores' death it had not come as much surprise to anyone. Much of the wizarding community had assumed Harry and Hermione were romantically involved, an idea that provoked much mirth among those that knew them well. Harry and Ginny, Hermione and Ron. Some things were written in the stars, a destiny that even Sybil Trelawney could have foretold.

Dragon keeping had been his main priority in those days, his visits home few and far between. There had been little time for romantic entanglements; and while he was pleased that Ron had found someone to make him happy, all he could recall of his future sister in law was a mane of bushy brown hair and an armful of books. It had been Bill and Fleurs' engagement party when he had first really noticed her, when he had first looked at her as something other than his little brothers' girlfriend. She had been more than a little drunk, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Dragging him away from the corner he had been happily settled in, she made him dance with her, the fact that she had no idea what the song was providing no impediment to her enthusiasm. Her slender body was warm and soft in his arms, the tickle of her untameable hair against his forearms oddly erotic. He barely heard her when she made a joke about Remus Lupins' horror at being dragged out onto the dance floor by an overenthusiastic Tonks, in truth he had not noticed anyone else around them. Swaying mindlessly to the music, rough hands spanning her narrow waist, the song seemed to go on interminably. She thanked him for the dance with a guileless grace he could not begin to emulate, whispering that he had better be careful of the girls eying him from the table in the corner. Her breath was sweet with butterbeer, her giggle low and husky. Grinning reluctantly he had let her go, steadying her when she stumbled slightly. Briefly her mouth was close to his, her hand gripping his shoulder, and for a moment he wanted to kiss her so badly it actually hurt.

_Not good, not good at all…_ There had been women in his life before; nice girls whose company, and more he had enjoyed. This was different. This was wild and uncontrollable and utterly wrong. The following morning Charlie volunteered for a dragon wrangling post in Hungary; distance was the key, he told himself firmly, all he needed was a little space. When Ron and Hermione married six months later he offered his congratulations, wished them well, and did not meet her eyes.

He remembers those days sometimes. Happy days when there was laughter and hope; days when the Daily Prophet was a newspaper and not just a register of the dead. They had fought, and they had fought well. Voldemort had died by Harrys' hand, the Death Eaters all but vanquished. Few families in the wizarding world had been untouched by the war, and in the aftermath it seemed that their community had grown closer, the memory of shared horror an inoculation against the re-emergence of evil. These days were a time of tentative renewal and progress, however such hope had not come without a price.

The final battle had taken the lives of both Ron and Neville Longbottom. Loyalty unwavering they had fought like heroes beside their friends, their sacrifice allowing Harry to get close enough to Voldemort to finish him off. In the dark silent moments when sleep will not come, Charlie remembers that night. Hermiones' dark head bent over the sprawled figure of his brother, the wedding ring that he had only worn for three weeks gleaming brightly on his lifeless finger. She had not cried, he remembers that much. Dull eyed and self controlled she seemed to sleepwalk through the funeral and it's aftermath, her face a mask and her knuckles white on the bench she sat upon at the inquest of his death. Molly and Arthur had offered her a room and she had accepted; the thought of moving back to her muggle parents' world unendurable. Her presence is a comfort to his parents; Ron had loved her, by keeping Hermione close, they still had a small part of him with them.

Not much has changed in the long months since. Declining offers that will take him too far from home, Charlie listens to her crying when she thinks no one can hear her, tries not to notice how thin she has become. There are times when he has to leave the house abruptly; walk until he is too tired to think properly, until the urge to pull her close and tell her how much he loves her has passed. It is Ron she cries for, Ron she wants. His little brother may be gone, but his presence can still be felt throughout the house, his memory as fresh as the day he died.

And he can no more touch her as his widow than his wife.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise is mine. Everyone knows that anyway don't they?**

It had been Ginny who had brought them together.

His little sister with hersharp eyes and intuition, unwilling to let anything rest despite the consequences. She had seen the wayCharlie looked at Hermione and had confronted him with a truth even he had tried to avoid. He had asked, no forbidden her to say anything, but four months pregnant and increasingly irritable at having to fend off Harrys' concern and Mollys' mothering, she had not been inclined to listen. She had planned and she had plotted with a cunning even Voldemort himself would have envied. Persuading Hermione to go to the party at the Ministry had been suspicious, presenting her with the beautiful black dress as "an early Christmas present" had been downright blatant. Charlie had found himself ordered upstairs to fetch her by a smirking Ginny, who had suddenly decided the stairs were too much of an obstacle for someone in such a "delicate condition." Wearily knocking on Hermiones' door he had found her struggling to tame her hair into some sort of chignon, her cheeks flushed and her eyes narrowed with impatience. Utterly, irrefutably and unquestionably beautiful.

"Do I look alright?" Frowning at her reflection she had seen the look on his face and laughed. "It's just a dress Charlie, I'm not trying to outshine Fleur."

"You don't have to," he had blurted out the words before he had time to stop them.

Hermione had paused at that, and Charlie had found himself wildy overcompensating for the thoughtless comment. "Between Fleurs' ego, Percys' self importance and Ginnys' tummy, it's going to be difficult to fit us all around the table come Christmas time as it is. We don't need another diva in the house."

"How do you know what a diva is?" Tucking a strand of hair behind her earshe had watched his reaction carefully, brown eyes curious. "I thought that was a muggle expression."

"You've never heard of Serafina Vandeguard?"

Rolling her eyes good naturedly she had wandered over, so close he could smell her perfume. "Not every Hogwarts student grows up in a magic friendly household remember?"

"Famous singer from the last century, once turned an entire orchestra into teapots because they played out of tune."

"Really?"

"Yep."

She'd laughed at that, kissing his cheek briefly as she slid past him and descended the stairs.

"Hermione." _Say something flattering _he had thought in panic, _tell her how beautiful she looks._

Turning and looking at him enquiringly the light from downstairs turned her hair into a copper halo, and everything he had meant to say fled from his mind.

"Have a nice time."

The hours before they returned had dragged with such interminable sluggishness that Charlie found himself wishing no fewer than fifty seven times for a time turner. Reading was hopeless, the rain drumming on the windows vetoed any thoughts of going for a walk, and sleep remained as stubbornly elusive as the unicorns in the Forbidden Forest. _Why hadn't he told her how he felt?_ Shifting awkwardly on the bed, he had listened to the storm outside and invented ever more worrying scenarios. Harry and Ginny were too preoccupied with each other to look after Hermione; what if someone tried to take advantage of her? What if she got lost, or hurt, or… eaten by a dragon? The possibilities were endless, and knowledge that he was being utterly ridiculous had not come as much comfort.

In truth the trio had returned fairly early. Ginny tired easily and neither Harry nor Hermione had taken much pleasure in the celebrity status given them after the final battle. Listening with relief as the trio bid each other goodnight, Charlie had waited for the familiar sound of Hermiones' footsteps to pass his door, the click of her latch that would let him know she was safely back home. It had not come.

Even now, so many months later it still seems like some sort of dream; the knock on his door, her tentative apology for disturbing him.

In the flickering candlelight she had pulled her dress over her head and hesitated, shy and trembling in the faint light, the heavy chestnut hair falling over her face and hiding her expression.

"Hermione?" Caught between wonder and terror he had said the first words that came into his head. "Are you drunk?"

She had looked at him aghast, cheeks flushing with mortification. Grabbing her dress from the floor and stumbling in the unfamiliar high heels, it had only been a hasty spell to seal the door shut that stopped her from fleeing the room.

"Wait." Scrambling out of bed with far more haste than elegance he had grabbed her arm and pulled her back before she could reach for her wand. "I didn't mean… this is.. .do you know what you're doing?"

"I'm sorry, I thought…" Her voice had been hesitant, thick lashes hiding her eyes, muscles tensed beneath his fingers.

"Oh bloody hell Hermione." How on earth was he supposed to have resisted her? The whole situation had been hopeless from the start. Her breath tickled his neck, her rigid posture relaxing as he ran his hands down her back. She had seemed to blaze when he touched her; embers banked low awakened with each touch, each kiss. Her hair was cool and silky as he pulled her head towards him, her mouth hot and insistent. The wraith of a thousand half remembered dreams suddenly sweet and soft and all too real beside him. Everything he had ever wanted.

That had been the first night; the first time they had woken sweat slicked and sated in each others arms, the first time he had watched her open her eyes blearily and bury her head in his chest, giggling in embarrassment. Two months on she came to him each night, and if Molly finds it odd that Hermiones' sheets remain uncreased and obviously unslept in, she says nothing. Her wedding band lies on her dressing table, removed but not discarded. Ron was too much a part of both their lives to be forgotten, and Charlie knows that there is a part of Hermione that will always belong to her first love, just as a part of him will forever mourn his younger brother. That is how it will always be, and perhaps that is how it should be.

They have told no-one yet. Hermione is wary of upsetting his parents, and the birth of Fleur and Bills' first child has caused enough disruption for the time being. It is only a matter of time however. Ginny and Bill have both already guessed, and the spectacularly unsubtle hints Tonks dropped when she and Lupin last came to dinner mean that their love will not remain a secret for long. Watching as Hermione teeters on a stool in attempt to decorate the top of the Christmas tree, managing to drop more tinsel on Ginnys' head than the branches, he catches her eyes and smiles. Whatever the future will bring they will face it together. In the still, silent hours of the night there is only one woman he holds close, and only one name she whispers in the darkness.

**A/N I meant this to be a one shot, but reading it back I wanted a happy ending so I wrote one… Shameless fluff I'm afraid! Should I have left it as a one chapter story? Let me know if so and I'll change it back.**

**Thanks Kranbaree, aglaia, Luthien and Moony4Moony for the reviews, very much appreciated.**


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.

It was only when the sun rose high enough to seep through the gap in the curtains and sting her eyes, that Hermione found the energy to untangle her legs from Charlie's and slither out from underneath the sheets. He didn't notice. Snuffling his freckled nose into the pillow, his body curled into the warm indentation her body had made without waking, one foot poking out from under the sheets and a muscular arm flung over his head with unconscious vulnerability.

Strange how things turn out.

Carefully tugging a blanket back over his shoulders she smiled a little at him, watched the sun gild his tanned skin and turn his hair to wildfire. Charlie. Good natured, good humoured, courageous dragon tamer extraordinaire: _her_ Charlie. Outside the door the floorboards creaked with the unmistakable sound of Harry creeping back to his bedroom, Ginny's whispered goodbye as much a promise as a farewell. Molly and Arthur are strict when it comes to premarital intimacy, a view that is outwardly respected and then flouted at every given opportunity by most of the couples that reside under their roof. Suppressing a giggle at the memory of Tonks returning from a late assignment and greeting Lupin with far more enthusiasm than grace, discretion or prudence, Hermione thought with affection that it was lucky everyone expected Tonks to be clumsy, for it certainly distracted attention away from her knickers tangled amongst the remanants of the teapot she had managed to knock to the floor.

Ron would have laughed, she thinks to herself, and the knowledge no longer hurts the way it once would have done. The guilt has gone, Ron's memory a benevolent ghost that flickers at the edge of her subconscious, neither unwelcome nor obtrusive. Charlie has never pushed her to talk about the last battle, and for that she is grateful, for she has long ago made her peace with the terrible events of that day, and has no desire to open them to public scrutiny. She and Harry know what happened, and for them it is a private matter, a shared grief, no matter how many times The Daily Prophet try to rake up it's memory. Charlie wakes her when she has the occasional nightmare; silent and reassuringly bulky, holding her tight until she falls asleep again, and more than once she has reawakened to find him watching her with a softness that belies his appearance.

It is strange, she thinks, that she had thought everything worth leaning was to be found in the printed page when she was younger. The look in Nevilles' eyes as he blocked hex after hex, taught her more about courage than any dusty pictures of long ago heroes in her history books, Rons' sacrifice a strange bitter lesson in nobility and loss. In the darkness when Charlie whispers her name and she runs her fingers over the scars on his back, she wonders at the poets that tried to capture this feeling, tried to pin down something so hot and sweet and _right, _in ink and parchment.

"Whatcha doin?" Charlie's voice is sleepy, his eyes squinting in the light. The sheets are rumpled and his tousled hair makes him look much younger than his thirty years.

"Nothing." Smiling she slips back under the covers and snuggles against him. "Nothing at all."

**A/N A little epilogue because Dea asked for one - very fluffy I'm afraid. Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter.**


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